


Qualifying

by elfin



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfin/pseuds/elfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony takes Bruce to Monaco to have his wicked way. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Qualifying

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a challenge during the Monaco F1 qualifying and race, May 27th 2012

After ten hours in a plane and another hour in a car stuck in traffic in sweltering heat, Tony knows how relieved Bruce is to step aboard the quiet yacht and leaves him alone for a while. He potters about, checking vital supplies while keeping one eye on his guest who stands at the stern looking out over the famous Monaco circuit; the Novelle Chicane and Tabac corner, the sparkling city beyond, the glamour, the money, the excess.

And suddenly he isn’t sure this was such a great idea. For a man they picked up in one of the poorest places on earth, hijacked while he was trying to help the sick and the dying with little more than good hygiene and past experience, all this must seem garish at best, nauseating at worst.

Finally he approaches, stopping short of Bruce’s back and talking to the deck when he said, “Welcome to Monte Carlo.”

Bruce turns, and instead of the disgusted expression Tony expects to see, there’s a childlike glee, a wondrous smile that steals Tony’s breath just for a moment.

“I didn’t think you’d appreciate the crowds,” rushes out, “so I bought the yacht –“

“You bought this to bring me here?”

Tony shrugs. “I didn’t have one. And I thought you’d be happier out on the water, you know, as long as it doesn’t take off which it doesn’t as far as I know.”

“I’ve lived in villages with less square footage.”

Tony looks around. He honestly didn’t ask about the size of the Tranquillite when he’d bought her over the internet from an Arab Prince who’d commissioned her but never even stepped aboard. She’s big, and comes with a crew, although beyond having them stock the galley and the bar and ensure there are clean sheets in the, admittedly huge, master cabin, he’s declined their services for the rest of the weekend. 

Every mooring either side of them is occupied. There are parties going on onboard most of the vessels, some with a few guests, others teeming with them. He doesn’t want a party. On board Tranquillite it’s just he and Bruce and that’s exactly the way he wants it to stay.

“I bought you a present,” he blurts out and wonders if there’s been anyone who’s made him more nervous than this shy, unassuming scientist. Bruce looks at him, wary, arms wrapping around himself as if Tony’s announced some terrible surprise, and his eyes fall onto the small, flat square package Tony is holding up. “It’s hot here, and – well – kinda glamorous. I know you don’t have an extensive wardrobe....” 

He watches as Bruce takes it with his face shut down, and marvels just in the bright, grateful smile that slides across his lips as he opens the tissue paper and unfolds the black T-shirt, holding it up to read the front. It isn’t new, it’s slightly faded, worn, one of his most treasured possessions.

“’Rage Against the Machine, 1992, Suicidal Tendencies’.” By the smile on Bruce’s face he isn’t offended but the not-joke; his eyes are wide and bright and happy in the sunshine. He isn’t easily offended and Tony can only wonder at how long it must have taken to develop that thick a skin. 

“You like? It’s a rare one, and I’ve hung on to it a while, but I think it’s your size. At the moment, at least. Do me a favour and try not to rip it?” Old, old joke and Bruce takes it in the spirit it’s intended as he lifts his pale purple shirt from the hem, stretching up as he pulls it off over his head. Tony watches – although ogles is probably a better word – salivating at the taut stomach, muscles toned by necessity more than vanity, a darkly haired torso and dark pink nipples he imagines licking like ice-cream. 

Bruce pulls on the T-shirt over the knee length cut-offs and holds out his arms

“Looks good,” is all Tony can think to say that doesn’t sound at all libidinous. 

“Thanks. For... all this.”

“Hey,” he ties for nonchalance, “Last time I came here, Vanko tried to kill me – very nearly succeeded.”

“So you thought you’d bring protection?”

Tony stares, says calmly, “No. I thought it would be nice to replace the bad memories with good ones.”

Bruce looks suitably chastised, and Tony reaches between them, squeezes one bare arm, unable to resist a single stroke of one thumb over smooth hair and sun-flushed skin, catches his breath.

“Martini, big guy?” 

He expects Bruce to decline. He’s declined every other drink Tony’s offered him in the last couple of months so he’s stunned when Bruce replies with a nod, hands tucked into his pockets, following Tony to the bar just inside the ultra-modern living space rising from the smooth, sweeping lines of the deck. 

“You know I’ve never seen a car race in my life, right?”

Tony’s head snapped up. “Never?”

He looks the way he does whenever he’s talking about’ the other guy’; afraid, ashamed, but with a wan acceptance. “A bit too crowded.”

“But there was a time before Ross pumped you full of Steve juice.”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth crease in faint disgust. “I was only ever interested in working. You and I... lead completely different lives.”

“Led.”

“What?”

“We led different lives, past tense.”

“And from now on?”

Tony doesn’t want to answer that, not yet. He has hopes, he has ideas, but it’s too soon. He’s always lived a fast life, even before Afghanistan, before Iron Man. He has to slow down if he’s going to pick up Bruce and take him along with him. Ironically, a $100,000,000 yacht in Monaco for a Formula 1 Grand Prix weekend is him slowing down. Or maybe it’s the absence of a fifty-strong entourage or a crowd of big-breasted women aboard the boat which is the real tell.

Happy wasn’t particularly, when Tony told him, and Pepper wasn’t either. Even Fury sent a querying email. Tony has never been concerned with the opinions of other people. So what if he’s gone all out this weekend to make Bruce feel cared for, to make him feel special – not in a bad way for once but in a ‘loved by Tony Stark’ way. 

He mixes two dirty martinis with skilled ease and hands one to Bruce. “It’s going to get loud,” he warns, “I’ve got us ear plugs....”  
Bruce takes the glass by the stem and Tony’s pulse speeds up, embarrassingly, just from the accidental touch of their fingers. It isn’t the exact reason he’s done all this, this response, these feelings, the way his emotions red-line whenever he thinks about Bruce Banner, sees his face or reads his name. He agreed to be a part of Nick Fury’s super-strength boy-band because his ego demanded it. He never thought for a moment that it would lead to anything like this.

“I can deal with loud noises.” 

They take their drinks to the stern of the yacht, swing out under the railing and sit with their legs dangling, heels tapping the reinforced glass of the window belonging to the cabin under them.

“Why me?” Bruce asked, and Tony knows he’s been trying desperately hard not to ask since they got into the car to drive to the airport. “Why not Steve or Natasha or Clint?”

“Did I ask Steve or Natasha or Clint to come home with me after Loki’s wild party?”

“No....” He said it as if he was only just beginning to realise Tony might have had an ulterior motive. 

“Hey, don’t second guess your decisions. You came back with me, doesn’t matter why I asked or why you accepted. Tell me the last couple of months haven’t been great.”

Tony knows he can’t. Despite reservations about living in a city – the same one he’s been hounded out of at least once – and about working in a ninety-storey tower where other people are, it’s worked out well. 

‘He seems happier,’ Steve told Tony one afternoon in a New York micro-brewery while Bruce was away from the table taking a piss, ‘more grounded.’ And the comment riled Tony as much as it had pleased him, because as healthy as it was for Bruce, what Tony actually wanted to do was blow his mind, rock his world, and every other cliché he could think that described him as the centre of Dr Banner’s universe.

Bruce is nodding. “They have been great. And now we’re here, in Monte Carlo, on a nine figure yacht called Peace that you bought because I don’t like crowds.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you didn’t need to go to all this trouble. If you wanted to fuck me, you just had to ask.”

Tony tries not to let that throw him but it isn’t easy. He turns his head deliberately and waits for Bruce to look him in the eyes. “I want to fuck you.”

“Fine.” 

There are celebratory fireworks going off in Tony’s head but something else too, a warning alarm, something about the tone of Bruce’s voice. Then he realises. “Whoa, no. I said fuck you, I don’t want to rape you.... Not my thing. If we’re doing this, I need you with me, body and mind.”

“I can’t....”

“You think? Or you know? You’ve got the control to do this.”

“I haven’t in years....”

“Because you don’t like yourself.” Tony puts down his drink and puts his hand flat on Bruce’s stomach, fingers spreading across his sternum, writing on the T-shirt rough under his palm. “I really like you, I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.”

Bruce’s head drops to look at Tony’s hand. “I like me fine.”

“You don’t see yourself as sexy.”

“With the knowledge I have of my body, it’s difficult.”

Tony turned his hand slowly, slight pressure through his palm. “I could show you how good your body can feel but I need you right along with me. Or we can just sit and enjoy the afternoon.” He reaches again for his drink, sips the martini and hears the distant roar of engines, multi-million dollar cars getting ready to come out on to the track. It’s what everyone else here has paid to see. Not Tony. He’s seen it, done it, raced it. Almost died. Story of his life. 

He’s staring out at the track listening to the growing noise of the engines. Qualifying isn’t the same as the race, there’s less density of sound when only a few of the cars are out at any one time but it’s just as captivating. 

“Show me.” 

He barely hears it, but he can feel Bruce’s eyes on him and the heat in them. He turns, doesn’t have to be asked twice and doesn’t insult him by asking if he’s sure. He leans in and kisses him, brushing his tongue over Bruce’s bottom lip. Bruce’s mouth belatedly opens under Tony’s and he licks his tongue inside, tasting the dryness of the vermouth and the olives. Bruce groans softly, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to take this somewhere more private. Chances are they’ve already been captured by at least one television camera and a hundred mobile phones. He wouldn’t usually care but Bruce is his and this is private, at least here at the start of it. 

He leaves his glass on deck, gets to his feet and holds out his hand for Bruce to take. The first group of Formula 1 cars roar passed the stern of the yacht as they walk hand in hand into the covered living space, all sleek lines, subtle lighting and soft furnishings. 

Tony pulls the sliding door closed, shutting out most of the noise and turns to catch both of Bruce’s hands, stepping close, tilting his head to kiss him again. Bruce meets him half way, sliding his tongue over Tony’s, hands settling somewhat tentatively on his shoulders while Tony tangles his fingers in Bruce’s hair. 

He walks them over to the stupidly wide, curved seating, pushing Bruce to sit and straddling his lap, pulling at the hem of the ‘Rage’ T-shirt. Bruce helpfully holds up his arms and Tony gets the T off him, dumps it on the thick carpet, following quickly with his own. Bruce has seen the arc reactor before, up close and personal, and Tony’s grateful for his own foresight because now it doesn’t distract from what he wants to do. He seals his lips on the side of Bruce’s neck, sucks hard before trailing his tongue down to his collarbone and nipping at the sensitive skin. He can feel the sounds catching in Bruce’s throat, kisses the base of it before sliding back, knees just on the couch, hands on narrow hips as his tongue finds dark nipples and he sucks and licks like he wanted to do out on deck. 

Bruce is coming apart under such simple stimulation. Tony can feel gentle hands stroking his shoulders, his back, sweeping to his hips. He puts one hand flat to Bruce’s chest and picks up his heart beat. Bruce will warn him, he knows, if it gets dangerous but he can’t help the thrill he feels doing this. 

He catches Bruce’s left nipple between his front teeth and Bruce rears up, pressing his chest up to Tony’s face, hands flying to Tony’s head, clutching at his hair. Tony growls, increases the pressure, the sharp pain of his teeth and soothing warmth of his tongue, setting a quick pace, wondering idly if Bruce might come just from this.

It’s not what he wants, he realises, so he backs off, easing himself down between Bruce’s legs, dropping to his knees on the carpet, unfastening Bruce’s pants with his one hand as he undoes his own with the other, sliding them down, kicking off his briefs. With them both blissfully naked, Tony looks up and smiles at Bruce’s heavy eyes and parted lips, breath coming quickly.

“Okay?”

Bruce nods, finds one of Tony’s hands and tangles their fingers. Tony takes a hold of Bruce’s glorious erection with his other hand, takes it in his mouth and slides down until the thick tip hits the back of his throat. He moves his fingers over finely haired testicles into the heat of his ass, his touch as obscene as he can make it, stroking the tight ring of muscle at the same time as he hollows his cheeks and sucks upwards along the length of Bruce’s dick.

“Fuuuuck.” It’s long, drawn out, Bruce’s free hand settling on Tony’s head, fingers twitching. He’s making incredible sounds, shifting minutely but restlessly, hips hitching up, falling back. “Tony....” There’s a warning in his voice and Tony can feel him rushing to a different edge, his orgasm imminent. He sinks down further, presses his finger just inside Bruce, rubs his tongue along the underside of his dick, swallows against the slick tip.

Bruce jerks up once, hands clutching at Tony, clawing painfully in his hair, squeezing his fingers, coming down Tony’s throat. He swallows it all, sucking him gently through the aftershocks, licking him clean. Bruce is still trembling when Tony lifts himself back to into his lap, sitting with his ass against Bruce’s knees, his own dick begging for attention. Bruce catches his hand before he can touch himself, stares at him hungrily for long, agonising seconds, before he palms him, makes a fist and jerks him off slowly. 

Tony bends double to lean forward and kiss him, wet and sloppy, stroking his arms, his chest, the hand on his dick narrowing to be the epicentre of his focus. He yells out as he finally comes, white ribbons hitting Bruce’s stomach, skilled hand milking him for every drop until he’s utterly spent, head dropping to Bruce’s shoulder, licking at the sweat in the hollow of his collarbone.

“You fucking know what you’re doing,” Tony complains when he can speak again, sliding from Bruce’s lap, leaving one leg over his thighs as he curls up into his side.

“Never said I didn’t.” Bruce’s arms wrap around him as Tony strokes his sticky stomach and thighs. Beyond the glass doors he can hear ten cars vying for pole position. He’s happy to miss all the action on the track for the action he can get right here. They’re just getting started and now he knows Bruce is right there with him, he wants it all.

“Does this boat have a shower?” Bruce asks, and Tony looks at him, sees him watching Tony’s fingers on his stomach with an expression of mild disgust. 

“For a hundred million dollars, I’m hoping there are several. And a pool.” Bruce’s eyes light up, and oh yes, there’s going to be skinny dipping once the sun goes down. He can feel his sated dick twitching and uncurls himself, wobbles on his feet and again holds out a hand to Bruce. “Let’s get clean so we can get dirty again.”

Bruce’s filthy smile makes it all worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [Published Fiction](http://www.madeleine-marsh.com/)


End file.
